Disclaimer: This story is written for the private entertainment of fans. The author makes no claims on the characters or their portrayal by the creation of this story. Fraser, Vecchio, et.al. belong to Alliance; the McKenzies and friends belong to me: Cat Madden belongs to Carol Trendall and is used with permission. No infringement of any copyrights held by CBS, Alliance, CTV or any other copyright holders of DUE SOUTH is intended. This story is not published for profit, and the author does not give permission for this story to be reproduced for profit.

Lyrics from Holy Tears by Tara MacLean are used without permission.

Regrets and Thoughts of You

By Cassandra Hope

(Copyright 2000)

The old mansion on Regency Place had worn many guises and seen many people come and go. Built in the early-20's, it had first been a high priced brothel frequented by such men of note as Al Capone, "Bugsy" Moran, and Mayor "Big Bill" Thompson. With the end of Prohibition and the crackdown on 'houses of ill-repute', the mansion was sold to a fledging millionaire, Howard Hughes, as investment property. Hughes never visited the large abode and it quietly moldered away as a curiosity within a neighborhood filled with curiosities.

In the late 50's, it was donated to the Catholic Church and, for many years, was home to a small group of Benedictine monks who spent their time in prayer and tending the grounds of the mansion. The house once more glowed with the care lavished on it by the lay brothers.

As the circle of time rolled on, the small number of monks declined to the point where they were relocated and the mansion was again placed for sale. Purchased by an eccentric old lady for her ailing grandson, some of the carefully tended gardens of the monks were cleared and a small indoor swimming pool constructed. At the far corner of the property a small cottage was built for a live-in nurse and over the next 10 years the crippled child strengthened his withered limbs by swimming lap after lap in the pool built just for him. With the passing of his grandmother, the young man became sole owner of the large mansion. Wishing to help others facing similar misfortunes as he'd experienced, he opened his home as a temporary shelter for families of patients in local hospitals. On an ill-fated flight to discuss his shelter with the McDonald's Corporation, his private plane went down in a cornfield in southern Illinois. The will was contested and the battle spanned another decade before a settlement was reached. Now the old house had been sold once more and the profits split between the legitimate heirs. Now the old house sat in relative peace and waited for its new owners.

Inspector Margaret Thatcher, RCMP, stared in dismay at the imposing edifice behind its wrought iron fence. She was vaguely aware of her subordinate officers, Constables Benton Fraser and Renfield Turnbull coming up behind her.

"It's a monstrosity!" she finally breathed.

"It is rather large and imposing..."

"It's horrible! Whatever was Ottawa thinking when they purchased this antiquated ruin?" Thatcher's voice dripped sarcasm.

"I'm sure..."

"I don't want to hear it!" she effectively cut off whatever Ben might have said. "We're stuck with it and we just have to make the best of it." She straightened her navy blue jacket then glancing over her shoulder, said, "Let's see what the interior is like." With her back ramrod straight, she strode purposefully through the entrance in the wrought iron fence, her two subordinates close on her heels. Turnbull slipped past her and hurriedly opened the massive doors to the house.

Stepping inside, the trio was immediately enveloped in a massive dark and somber entranceway, the nether regions barely visible in the wan light that came from the door behind them. The wood paneling and deep red carpet only added to the gloom. Fumbling for a light switch, Ben flipped the switch and a weak light filled the area.

Thatcher craned her neck, staring at the offending light fixtures. "I want new bulbs in that thing ASAP."

"Yes, sir," both Ben and Turnbull answered.

Glowering at the two men, Thatcher swung around and strode toward one of the closed doors that faced the entranceway. One glance inside the room and she hastily closed the door and backed away from it. Spinning on her heels, she stalked across the hallway to the other set of doors muttering something that vaguely sounded like 'medieval torture chamber'.

Throwing the door open, she entered the large sitting room. A faint floral print decorated the walls and white sheets cloaked the furniture. She whipped one of the covers off revealing a floral patterned chaise lounge. Staring in horror at the small sofa, she dreaded revealing what else hid beneath the white cloaks. She took two steps back and bumped into Ben who had entered the room behind her.

"I'm sorry, sir," he began then faltered as she turned on him.

Thatcher bit her lip to keep the vitriol from spilling forth. Fraser had absolutely nothing to do with the tasteless furnishings of her new office. Even though she took a small amount of pleasure in chewing him out, she could not place any blame on him for this fiasco. Instead, Ottawa would hear from her. Bringing her emotions under control, she tossed the sheet across the chaise lounge and swept her hand around in an all-encompassing gesture. "Get rid of this, Constable."

"Certainly, sir. I'm sure we can find suitable furnishing for your office in one of the other rooms of this building," Ben placated, his voice a soothing murmur.

"I'm sure we can and if not...I'm sure the relocation funds will be sufficient to supply this office with the necessary furnishings." At least, this room wouldn't require the amount of work the one across the hallway would. Maybe the 'dungeon' across the hall could be transformed into a conference room. Glancing around the room once more, she studied the possibilities. All business now, she brushed her hands together and strode back into the entrance hallway where Turnbull awaited them. "Well, let's see the rest of this dinosaur!"

An hour later, the trio had visited the basement, climbed the stairs to the second story, skirted the swimming pool, strolled through the garden, and inspected the small cottage at the rear of the grounds. Now they stood in the large, efficient kitchen, Turnbull's eyes glistening with suppressed emotion.

"Oh what a glorious kitchen!" he exclaimed as he eagerly investigated the large pantry. Other similar noises escaped him as he flung open the doors of the massive refrigerator. He literally cooed at the double ovens. Turnbull was a man in love.

"And you, Fraser, what have you discovered?" Thatcher queried.

"Ah...I believe that the large bedroom that faces the garden would make a lovely Queen's Bedroom, don't you think, Inspector?" Ben ran a finger beneath the collar of his tunic.

Surprised at Ben's revelation, Thatcher's brows creased in puzzlement. "Yes, I believe that room would do nicely for the Queen's Bedroom." She paused a moment, then asked, "Have you found a suitable room for an office?"

"I hadn't really thought of that, sir. I suppose any room would be sufficient for my needs."

"I'm quite sure any room would suffice, Constable, and I'll leave that choice up to you."

"Thank you, sir. What about Turnbull?"

"What about him?" she asked back. They both glanced at the man in question as he lovingly sorted through the pots and pans that hung from a rack over the large stovetop before gazing in rapt admiration at the ample stock of cleaning supplies and equipment stored in their own storage cabinet.

"Frankly, sir, I don't think we'll be able to get him to leave this kitchen for any great length of time," Fraser commented then held his breath as he realized that he had made a joke with his superior officer.

For the first time since entering the old house, Thatcher smiled. "No, I don't suppose he will. I guess we'll just have to do it for him. Eh, Constable?"

Ben slowly smiled back at her. For the first time in his acquaintance with Inspector Thatcher, he didn't feel the need to put on his "I am a Mountie" facade. Nodding his head, he directed her to precede him as they left the kitchen. Heading back toward the entranceway, they took turns opening doors and discovering what lay behind them. One small room caught Ben's eye and he knew he'd found what he wanted.

"I think this room will do for my office, sir," he said as he strolled over to the window and looked out over the garden.

Thatcher studied her subordinate as she glanced around the small room. "There are larger rooms, Constable."

"Yes, sir, I am aware of that. I prefer a smaller room, sir."

"Very well, Constable, the choice is yours."

"Thank you, sir."

"Now about Turnbull..."

"I had a thought on that, sir," Ben began. He ushered Thatcher from the small room and led her back out into the small passageway. Indicating the additional doors along it he said, "Turnbull, Cooper, and Ovitz could each have a room as an office. We would all be close at hand should you need something from one of us. The entrance hallway is large enough for a reception area. We could place a desk in it for Jasmine so that she could intercept any visitors and direct them to the proper offices."

Thatcher studied the hallway. It was, indeed, large enough for several desks. Glancing back toward the kitchen, she was surprised to see Turnbull standing in the doorway.

"If it's all right with you, sir, I think that is a bang up idea. I would be close to your office, the kitchen is right down the hallway, and the cleaning supplies are readily at hand."

Thatcher shook her head in amazement, then said, "Very well, Turnbull, if you feel this is an appropriate choice of office space, this is where it will be. Now, if we can just find some decent furniture..."

"Oh, please, sir, leave that to me," Turnbull eagerly interrupted her. "I know just the place to get everything we need!"

Thatcher studied Turnbull's eager face. "Very well, Turnbull, but first, let's inventory the furnishings of this place and see if there is anything suitable for our needs."

"I'll get on it as soon as I finish shopping for groceries."

"Groceries?"

"Oh, yes indeedy. That kitchen just begs to be used. I think I'll make my own version of ratatouille for dinner tomorrow." Turnbull rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

"Constable, I think your ventures in the kitchen will have to wait until we have moved the Consulate to these premises. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," Turnbull's voice fell with disappointment.

"After that, I'm sure we will all enjoy your culinary endeavors," Thatcher softened her hard line. Turnbull visibly brightened. "So, let's make this move as painless as possible." She turned to stare in the direction of the room that would become her office. Speaking half to herself, she muttered, "I must contact Sven. He'll know what to do with that!"

* * *

Phil rubbed absent-mindedly at her eyes knocking her glasses askew. Feeling the onset of a headache earlier in the day, Phil had removed her contacts and now wore her glasses. Removing them from her face, she leaned back in her chair and shook the dead weight of her leg sending shooting tingles through the limb. Closing her eyes she massaged her eyeballs then opened them to glance around the dimly lit confines of her home office. The general fuzziness of everything added to the malaise that she was beginning to feel. Picking up the small clock embedded in a ceramic lighthouse, she squinted at the time--7:47 pm. No wonder she fell ill at ease. She'd worked straight since coming home, skipping dinner...again.

Awkwardly rising to her feet, she stretched her hands over her head, then bending at the waist dropped them down to hang between her legs. She shook herself vigorously before straightening up thankful that her shoulder no longer bothered her. Her eyes strayed to the pile of photos that she'd not included in the sorting that now covered her dining table. Ben's trip album photos had been selected and all the extras now occupied a large space on the daybed in the corner. She had not realized how many photos she had taken that included Ben.

She would not look at them again. Hastily grabbing a trashcan, she brushed the large pile into it. There was no need to keep these reminders of the man she could no longer have. She had made a vow and she would honor it. She would marry Martin and she would forget about the man she'd once loved. A tear threatened and she quickly squelched it. She knew she would continue to think about Ben and regret her decision, but a vow was a vow. Her future lay with Martin and not with Ben no matter what the voice of her conscience told her. She'd learned to live without Ben in her life before and she could continue to do so. After all, Martin would be there for her and she did love Martin. It was just too bad that she didn't love him as much as she loved Ben.

Flipping the light off, Phil headed in the direction of her small kitchen. As she passed through the dining area, her eyes fell on the stacks of photos she'd placed there more than two week ago. With all that had happened in the meantime, she just hadn't had the willpower nor the want-to to get the job done. She really must finish the albums and get them in the mail.

Flipping the light in the kitchen on, Phil stared around the small room momentarily unsure of what she wanted to do. Finally, she opened the door of the refrigerator. She had to eat something or this headache would worsen. Sighing, she realized that she would have to do some grocery shopping. Her refrigerator was as bare as Mother Hubbard's proverbial cupboard. A lone bratwurst stared at her from the Ziploc baggie it had occupied for several days. 'Well, beggars can't be choosers,' she thought as she reached for the brat then drew her hand back. With an uncharacteristic growl of frustration, she slammed the door shut. As poor as her appetite had been over the past month, the thought of what meager fare resided in her cupboards gagged her.

Sliding her feet into a pair of comfortable loafers, she grabbed a sweater and her keys and headed out of her apartment in search of an appetizing meal. Surely somewhere in Chicago there had to be something that appealed to her. Twenty minutes later, she pulled into the parking lot of Cocina del Mino, a new Mexican restaurant. She recognized it from one of the ads that had dotted the network coverage of the hostage incident. The familiar fear began to rise and she quickly shoved it aside. Martin was home, safe and sound. Then why did she have this feeling that things weren't what they seemed?

The waiting line wasn't long and she soon found herself seated at the bar enjoying a virgin peach margarita. She did have to drive herself back home afterwards and she was taking no chances. When her table was ready, she quickly placed her order then waited for her meal to arrive ever conscious that she seemed to be the only single person at the popular restaurant. Suddenly feeling lost and alone, what little appetite she had deserted her and she wondered why she had ventured out at all. When her order came, she apologized profusely and asked that it be taken back and placed in a take-out container.

The waiter grimaced before unceremoniously removing her plate. In what seemed like an inordinate amount of time but was actually only a few minutes, he returned with her meal in a square Styrofoam container. Grumbling slightly, he slapped the bill face down onto the table and stalked away.

Rising to her feet, she grasped the container and headed toward the register. Even though the waiter had been less that courteous, Phil left him a tip knowing that the harried staff of the overcrowded restaurant were still human and humans sometimes acted rudely.

The drive back home took longer than the drive to the restaurant. Pulling to a stop at a light, she heard the wails of sirens and watched at two police cars sped through the intersection. When the light changed she followed in the direction the squad cars had gone simply because that was the direction she was already going. Not too far ahead, she slowed as she passed the squad cars now pulled to the side of the street. The police officers were talking to a man who gestured wildly with his arms. He looked like he was on the verge of a heart attack. Phil was glad to get past the congestion and resume her drive home. She did not look back so she did not see the dark green Buick Riviera pull to a stop and the three men and one wolf exit the car.

Back in her apartment, she carried her dinner to the kitchen. Pulling up a stool, she settled onto it and opened the Styrofoam container. Eating her repast, she idly toyed with the hunter green scarf that lay on the counter next to the box of goodies she received from Cat. When it arrived last week at the offices of BakTrak she'd been surprised, excited, and slightly suspicious. She knew that Cat must know of her circumstances by then. Even if Lloyd had not meant to divulge that information, she knew that Cat would find some way to worm it from him. So it was no surprise to learn that she knew about the trip with Ben as well as the situation with Martin.

Half way through her meal, she felt full and decided to save the rest for another time. Closing the container, she placed it in the refrigerator then turned back to the bar. A smile spread across her face as she reached for the box of chocolates and consumed another piece. The chocolate melted in her mouth and she closed her eyes enjoying the sensuous feel of the concoction on her tongue. With a sigh of pure decadence, she swallowed it and reached for another. She loved chocolate but seldom indulged in its extravagance. Her figure, she justified to herself.

Back in the living room, she paced restlessly from the patio doors to the piano to the wall of photos. Each time she passed the table she grimaced at the piles of photos knowing that she was being derelict in the performance of her job. Maybe once Martin returned to Chicago and she had an opportunity to talk with him, tell him of her decision, maybe then she could get her life back in order. Maybe then these fleeting thoughts of what life might have been with Ben would leave her alone. She regretted the vow she'd made but she would honor it. She would have to be content with her memories of Ben. The lone photo of Ben on the wall seemed to mock her and she knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that she was lying to herself.

Disgusted with the direction her thoughts were taking, Phil spun away from the wall of photos. She needed something to take her mind off of her troubles. With a smile curving her lips, she headed toward her bedroom. A nice long soak in a lavender scented bath would help relax her and divert her thoughts away from the men in her life.

An hour later, Phil emerged from her bath feeling deliciously mellow and decidedly feminine. She loved the sage green pajamas that Cat had sent her. Stretching languorously, she yawned widely and headed for her bed. Turning down the spread and the darkly patterned sheet, she carefully dropped down onto the side of the bed and stroked the cat that jumped up beside her.

"Hello, Chance, did you decide to join me?" she asked unaware of the wistfulness in her voice. The cat stalked away from her and settled onto the far corner of the bed. Phil shook her head and turned out the light. Sliding under the covers, she closed her eyes and composed her thoughts for sleep. Unfortunately, the only images that played across the back of her eyelids were those of Ben--Ben, as she'd come to know him during those eventful two weeks in the Grand Canyon.

"I'm sorry, Ben," she whispered to the darkened room. "We were never meant to be, were we?" She rolled over onto her side and tried to ignore her thoughts. Finally, she threw off the covers and rose from her bed. Stopping by the kitchen, she removed the rest of the goodies from the columbine decorated box and carried it to her office. Flicking on her desk lamp, she sat in her chair and reached for the trashcan. Each photo that had been so callously dumped in the can was removed and placed in the box. When no more remained, Phil placed the lid on the box and carried it to her bedroom.

Her shoulder protested when she tried to drag the file box from the bottom of her closet. Rocking back on her heels, Phil settled with placing the columbine box on top of it. She would add it some other time. After all, they were just something more to bury in her box of lost hopes and abandoned dreams. Pushing the box to the back, she returned to her bed. The last thought she had as she succumbed to sleep was that she really should let TJ get rid of that box. She wouldn't need it after she married Martin. The thought that Martin might object to it was quickly brushed aside. What did that matter?

Later that night it wasn't Martin that Phil made love to. It wasn't Martin that sent her heart soaring. It wasn't Martin who claimed that same heart and made her his own in a simple wedding ceremony. It wasn't Martin that held her heart but he would never know that.

* * *

"Hey, TJ, take a look at this." Dr. Allen Parker burst into TJ McKenzie's office. He placed a wooden box on his desk.

TJ glanced at his colleague before reaching for the small box. "What have you got in here? Something you picked up at an XXX-rated store?" TJ quipped.

Allen settled his large frame on the corner of TJ's desk. Shaking his head slightly, he rolled his eyes before replying. "Not this time, TJ. Go ahead...open it," he encouraged.

TJ lifted the lid from the small cedar box. Nestled within a cocoon of white wool was a ring. Glancing at Allen for permission, he removed the ring and, holding it close to the light, examined it. Carved into the body of the ring was a stylized grizzly bear with a salmon in its mouth. Symbols representing life, water, and the forest formed a pattern that flowed around the ring. It was all too evident to TJ that the craftsman who had created the ring was a master. "This is remarkable, Allen. Where did you find it?"

"Picked it up at a craft show while I was on vacation--immediately thought of you. I know how you love native crafts and how you've been mothering that collection of silver jewelry."

"Mothering?"

Allen nodded his head in affirmation. "Mothering."

"It's not that I love it, I just appreciate good work when I see it." TJ carefully examined the ring once more. "You know...this does resemble that collection. I've been looking for something like this for my next special exhibit."

Allen slid off the corner of the desk and clapped his hands together. "Well then, mission accomplished!"

Startled, TJ glanced quickly at his friend. "What do you mean?"

Digging in the pocket of his jacket, Allen withdrew a business card and a small leaflet. Handing them to TJ, he remarked, "I thought of you and your eternal quest for the best in aboriginal artifacts when I saw this man's work. He's a pretty interesting guy as well. You ought to visit him and see for yourself."

Three days later, TJ did just that.

"Flip, if anything happens...anything, you give me a call. Here's the number of the motel where I'll be staying. I should only be gone a few days but it really depends on how my negotiations go." He handed a slip of paper with several numbers and addresses on it to his sister.

"TJ, you worry too much about me. I'll be fine. Martin's home safe and that's all that matters."

"Flip," he paused, "I really wish you'd take a good look at what you're doing. You're living in some kind of fantasy world and when it comes crashing down I'm afraid you'll be hurt."

Phil shook her head while smiling slightly. "I know what I'm doing, TJ. I'm finally facing the truth. It's time I got on with my life and that life is with Martin." Not one to let an opportunity slip past, she spoke with quiet emphasis, "It's time you did the same thing, TJ. Put Noelle behind you and move on. I know there are many women out there that would be thrilled to catch such a great guy as you are. Don't let your opportunities pass you by."

Any further discussion was cut short by the announcement of TJ's flight. TJ kissed his sister goodbye and boarded his plane. Finding his seat, he dropped into it and watched as the plane taxied for take-off.

'So, am I letting my opportunities pass me by?' he asked himself as he stared out the window of the plane. Unbidden, memories of Noelle came to him. Time had healed that wound and he knew that that part of his life was over. Cat Madden paid his thoughts a visit and in a moment of regret wished things could have been different between them. Thinking back on this past summer and the gathering at Edge of the Earth, he let the regrets slip from his mind. There was no denying the depth of the love shared by Cat and Lloyd. He'd never seen Lloyd that happy before. Recalling the many discussions the two men had shared over the years, TJ knew that Lloyd had finally found what he'd searched for--his soul mate.

TJ's spirits plummeted again. Was there no one for him? Was there a soul mate for him? Or was he destined to continually search for love only to have it escape his grasp? Would he end up like Phil--continually reaching for his dreams but finally settling for second best? Memories of another women sought to invade his thoughts but he ruthlessly pushed her back into the darkest recesses of his mind. She had no place in his life. There really was no use in thinking about her. How could he possibly consider any kind of relationship with a woman who would continually remind his sister of the man she had once loved--who she still loved regardless of what she said about Martin. No, Becka Fraser had no place in his life. He just wished that his subconscious mind would quit reminding him of her.

He stared out of the window watching the clouds passing beneath the plane. Somewhere below him in the vast stretches of Canada, Becka Fraser went on with her life. Why did that thought depress him even further?

* * *

Diefenbaker yawned widely showing his sharp lupine teeth. In this instance he agreed whole-heartedly with Alpha Male. Sentry duty was not the proper utilization of his considerable skills. Any wolf could stand in front of the door and look officious. Any wolf could hold off these pathetic humans should they attempt to overthrow the consulate. Any wolf could do it with one paw tied behind his back.

Any wolf but him. He'd had enough of this. There were better things to occupy his time than guarding the consulate. Rising to his feet, he glanced at Alpha Male.

*Woof* He watched Alpha Male's eyes center on him. Good, he had his attention. He woofed once more then, tail held high, trotted down the street in search of his elusive quarry.

Ben watched as Dief trotted away from him. This wasn't the first time nor likely to be the last where the wolf had taken off on some secret mission. As much as he questioned him, Dief had been less than cooperative when it came to telling him what he was doing. A thought came to him and Ben's eyes widened. 'Oh dear,' he wondered, 'has he found himself another girlfriend?'

Diefenbaker continued on his hunt. He crossed the street at the corner, going with the flow of pedestrians. He could never tell which was the green light (being colorblind did have its disadvantages). The tantalizing aroma from a small meat market drew his attention and he stopped in to say 'hi' to the butcher. Since Alpha Male frequented the store, the butcher knew him well. He often saved a nice bone for the Mountie's wolf. The butcher smiled as the wolf pushed open the door and came to sit in front of the cash register.

"Top o' the morning, Diefenbaker, and how are you today?" Pat O'Sullivan asked.

*Woof* Dief answered.

"Well now, laddie, that's just great! Would a fine strapping young wolf like yourself be wanting a nice hefty bone?"

Dief danced and barked excitedly. He was rewarded with a large bone which he carried to the door and out onto the sidewalk. Situating himself where he could observe the passerby's, he happily gnawed on the bone for over an hour. When there was no more marrow to be found and all that was left was an empty husk, Dief graciously left it laying on the sidewalk for whatever dog might chance upon it.

Licking his chops, Dief returned to his hunt. His quarry was close--he could almost catch the scent. The trail led to a small brownstone office building five blocks from the consulate. He'd been here before, first when he'd tailed Alpha Male's sister and several times since then on his own. He waited patiently for someone to open the door then he hastily brushed past the unsuspecting accomplice and hid in the profusion of potted plants that filled a corner of the lobby. From that vantagepoint, he watched and waited. Sooner or later, he knew his quarry would appear. The scent was strong here.

He was an arctic wolf. He was patient. He could wait for his quarry to come to him. If not, he'd take matters into his own paws and extend his search to the other areas of this building. He knew his quarry was close.

The shifting sunlight as it filtered through the window alerted Dief to the passage of time. Snorting in disgust, he rose to his feet and padded to the door. A strategic placement of a paw and the door swung open. Ambling out onto the sidewalk, he headed for the consulate.

Ben stood as still as humanly possible. The itch beneath the collar of his tunic had risen past being a simple irritation to an inhuman torment. Still, he remained motionless. A movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention and he watched Diefenbaker trot towards him then drop heavily onto the sidewalk beside his legs. The wolf was definitely out of sorts. 'Must not be a girlfriend,' he thought then wondered what could possible occupy the wolf's time if it wasn't a new girlfriend.

* * *

"Vecchio, Kowalski, my office, now!" rang from the direction of Welsh's office. The two men glanced guiltily at each other before rising and heading in that direction.

"What'd ya do?" Stan questioned out of the side of his mouth. He'd finally decided to go with Stan to avoid all the confusion that had settled on his partnership with Ray Vecchio.

"Me? Me? Why's it gotta be me? What did you do?" Ray shot back.

"I ain't been here long enough to make him that mad so it has ta be you."

"You've been here long enough to piss me off."

"You don't count," Stan sneered.

"Have I come at an inopportune time?" Ben asked as he fell into step with the two detectives.

"Gentlemen, do you think you could contain your mutual admiration for the moment and get your butts in here, now?" Welsh roared.

"Nah, Benny, Welsh's got his shorts in a knot and we're on his 'shit' list. You might as well join us."

Ray and Stan quickly hustled into the glass walled office coming to a stop in front of Welsh's desk. Ben remained standing in the door of the office. A single folder lay open on the desk replacing the usual sandwich makings that were conspicuously absent. Welsh settled into his chair and waited for the inevitable shifting of feet and guilty glances passed between the two men. When they finally settled down, he cleared his throat and motioned for Ben to enter the office.

"You might as well hear this, Constable."

Ben nodded his head and clasping his Stetson in his hands entered the office and stood at attention while Ray and Stan slouched as only they could.

Spreading his hands across a form on his desk, Welsh stared at the document before raising troubled eyes to the three men. Clearing his throat, he spoke, his voice gutturally harsh, "Gentlemen, your car theft ring has just upped the stakes."

Ray's eyebrows rose dramatically but it was Stan that asked, "How so, Lieutenant?"

Welsh angrily tapped the paper with a forefinger. He spoke two words: "Car jacking."

Ray dropped heavily into the chair in front of Welsh's desk. Stan spun about on his feet and stared out through the blinds to the activity in the bullpen. He softly cursed, calling into play all the considerable profanity he knew.

"Was anyone injured, Leftenant?" Ben asked the question on the minds of the three men.

"Minor, but we almost had a kidnapping. Your car thief jacked a minivan. The driver wouldn't get out until he'd removed the baby from the car seat. Evidently the moment he stepped from the van, it sped away knocking the man and baby to the pavement. He's at Cook County, gentlemen, I suggest you get over there and get his statement. Maybe he got a better look at the thief than the others you've questioned."

He passed the document to Ray who perused it before handing it to Stan. "Today would be good," he growled.

Ray quickly rose from the chair and followed Stan and Ben out into the bullpen. The trio threaded their way to the desks in the corner. Ray grabbed his suit jacket.

"I'll drive," he said.

"Not that barge of yours," Stan muttered.

Movement caught the corner of his eye and Ray smiled, "Okay, tough guy, you can have the wolf hair all over your car seat."

"Wolf hair? What wolf hair?"

Smirking, Ray shrugged broadly. "Didn't you know? Fraser and the wolf are a done deal. You can't take one without the other."

"Wolf?" Stan scuttled back as Diefenbaker trotted up to the new detective.

*Woof* Dief greeted the new human then proceeded to give him a thorough sniffing. So this was the new human that Alpha Male had mentioned. If he hadn't been busy on his own case he might have met him sooner.

*Hmmm...coffee--black with a pawful of Smarties, Egg McMuffin, blueberry cake donut, and a lemon Bismarck.* Dief cataloged Stan's morning fare. This human was definitely someone to stick close to. Another deep sniff and another vague scent resolved itself--turtle. The new human had a turtle. Dief snorted on Turtle Man's shoes. Silly creatures, turtles, good only as an occasional snack and only if you were desperate enough to go to the trouble of cracking one open.

Still scuttling backwards, Stan's voice rose. "Will he bite? Hey, Frase, call off your wolf, would ya?"

"Diefenbaker! I'm sorry, Stan, he usually has better manners but ever since coming to Chicago his interpersonal skills have deteriorated woefully."

"Interpersonal skills? What kinda skills would that be? How to hunt the unwary pedestrian?"

"More like a helpless jelly donut," Ray interjected.

Stan's backward progress slowed. "Jelly donut?" he asked as he stared down at the wolf that had settled at his feet. Dief gazed expectantly up at him.

"Yes, sad to say, Diefenbaker has developed an unnatural taste for jelly donuts and other pastries. He's becoming fat," Ben snidely commented.

The wolf's head whipped around. *Growl*

"You know that I don't care for that tone of voice, Diefenbaker." Ben spoke out of the side of his mouth.

"He growled at ya, Frase."

"Yes, he did, Stan, and I'm sorry you had to hear that. He's started arguing about everything we discuss. I'm afraid he's picked up some bad habits from living in the city. And if he doesn't straighten up, he'll find himself shipped back up to the far north," he directed at the wolf. Diefenbaker ignored him by shifting his attention back to the new human.

"Ya sure he won't bite," Stan's voice edged up in a question. Ben nodded his head. Reassured, Stan turned to more important matters. "Now, about my car?"

"Dief would never intentionally soil the seat of your car, Stan."

"Ya sure 'bout that?"

"Just watch out for the unintentional soiling," Ray spoke up.

Ben turned an annoyed eye on his friend. That wasn't the way to instill trust in Stan. "Ray, that was an accident and you know that it would have never happened if you hadn't given him that sack of candy. Besides, Dief did apologize for that."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah..." Ray muttered as he led the way out of the bullpen. The other's followed on his heels, Dief dogging Stan's.

"Can't ya make him stop?" Stan plaintively asked of Ben.

"Lord knows I've tried but he simply doesn't listen to me."

"That's because he's deaf," Ray called over his shoulder.

"Deaf? You've got a deaf wolf?" Stan stared at the animal in question. "How'd that happen?"

"It's a long story..." Ben began.

"...takes about two hours to tell," Ray finished for him.

"Two hours?" Stan glanced from Ray to Ben, his forehead creased with lines of confusion.

"Yep," Ray pursed his lips and nodded sagely.

"Okay. Ya can tell me some other time, Frase," Stan spoke as he resumed his walk.

"You'll regret it," Ray mock whispered to Stan as he fell into step beside the blonde detective.

"I heard that, Ray..."

"Did I ever tell you about Mr. Bat Ears?" Ray draped a conspiratorial arm across Stan's shoulders.

"Bat ears?"

"Among other things."

The two detectives headed down the stairs, blonde head close to dark head, the white wolf never more than a pace or two behind. Fearful of being forgotten, Ben raised a hand and waved it. "Ray, Stan, wait for me," he called as he took the stairs two at a time only slowing down when his back protested the unaccustomed motion.

* * *

TJ shook the snow from his jacket before hanging it on a peg by the door. Why he'd finally decided on this restaurant cum tavern was beyond him. He'd driven from his motel searching for a good meal and had eventually found himself on the outskirts of the city. The snow had started to fall shortly after leaving the motel and it promised to hang on for several days. The lights of this establishment through the falling snow had appealed to him and he had pulled his landrover into the parking lot without another thought.

Glancing around the interior of the log structure, his eyes were drawn to the group of Mounties leaning against the bar. His heart settled into his throat at the glimpse of a blonde woman in their midst but it passed as he realized that she wasn't who he'd originally thought she was. Strolling across the room, he also noticed the large number of Native Americans either at the bar or seated at various tables or booths. The man behind the bar was Native as was the waitress that hurried in his direction with a cup and a pot of coffee.

Pulling out a chair, TJ dropped into it and accepted the menu from the pleasantly smiling woman. As she filled the cup with hot coffee he studied the menu. It didn't take long for him to decide on freshly caught salmon, poutine, a salad of pickled vegetables, crusty bread, and a beer. After the woman left with his order, he stared out of the window at the steadily falling snow. Already the brown earthen patches were covered and the vehicles that had been in the lot for awhile had a covering of white. His own landrover had a thin layer that would grow with the passage of time. Laughter from the bar drew his attention once more to the group of Mounties. He dropped his eyes to the cup of coffee and wondered why their laughter caused this sinking of his spirits.

* * *

Phil rolled onto her back barely awake. Turning her head she stared in disbelief at the clock on the table by her bed. Why had she awakened at 5:30 am? She rose to a sitting position then punched her pillow before falling face downward on it. Maybe she could get another hour or two of sleep.

The insistent buzz of her doorbell sounded once more. Phil rose to a sitting position once more carelessly pushing the hair out of her face. Someone was at her door. 'Who in their right mind would be pounding on my door at this early hour?' she wondered as she dragged herself out of the bed and reached for her robe. 'Whoever it is better have a damn good reason for waking me!' she mentally snarled as she tied the belt of the robe.

The doorbell sounded once more. "Hang on, dammit! The world won't end in the next minute!" she growled under her breath as she skirted the sofa and headed toward the door. Peering through the peephole, her hand flew to her throat before hastening to unlock the various locks on her door.

"Martin!" she cried before flinging herself into his arms. "Martin," she mumbled against his chest before hungrily claiming a kiss. "Martin," she repeated as the tears began to flow. Within in the safety of his arms, Phil touched his face, his shoulders, his hair, his new beard seeking to reassure herself that he really was there. A near hysterical laugh joined the tears as relief coursed through her.

Giving Phil a hug, Martin placed his hands on her upper arms and stared down into her face. "What's a man got to do to get a cup of coffee 'round here?" he asked with a smile in his voice.

Phil swept a hand across her face erasing the tears that had streamed across her cheeks. Tentatively placing a hand on his arm, she trailed it up until she could run a finger along the line of his jaw. "Is it really you?"

"Yes, Phil, it's really me." Nodding his head toward the empty hallway, "Do you think we could continue our conversation inside?"

Phil nodded her head in agreement wondering if she was just imagining the slight hesitation in Martin's responses.

Martin followed Phil into her apartment. Running a hand through his dark hair, he asked, "How have you been?"

"How have I been? I've been sick to death with worry and...and..." Puzzled by the cool tones of his voice, Phil's answer faltered. Martin seemed so distant, almost as if he were another man. What had happened over there in Cambodia? Stalling for time, she led the way to the kitchen. "Let me make us some coffee."

Martin nodded his head and followed Phil into her kitchen. He settled onto a stool at the bar and watched as she made the coffee.

Almost as if on autopilot, Phil went through the motions of preparing the coffee wondering about the differences she sensed in Martin. When the coffee was ready, she filled two mugs and carried them over to the bar. Retrieving a carton of Half-and-Half from the refrigerator she sat it beside the sugar bowl. After fixing her coffee, she climbed onto the stool beside Martin and watched as he swirled the spoon around in his mug.

"Martin..." "Phil..." They both spoke at the same time. Nervously, Phil indicated that Martin should speak first.

"No, Phil, please go ahead and say what you were going to say. What I have to say can wait a bit." Martin glanced at her face then quickly returned his eyes to his coffee mug.

"Um...why didn't you let me know you were returning to Chicago? I would have met you at the airport..."

Martin smiled slightly at Phil over the rim of his mug. "I know, Phil. I guess I should have called but..."

"That's okay, Martin, you're here now and that's all that really matters," Phil soft voice accepted the implied apology.

"No it's not, Phil!" Martin's voice held a tinge of anger. "It's not okay." Banging his mug down on the bar, he slid off the stool and began to pace. "Nothing's right! I thought I had everything figured out and then..." Running a hand across his forehead, he shook his head. "I'm sorry, Phil, I know I'm not making any sense."

"After what you've been through, you can be as senseless as you want. I certainly won't complain." She rose and came to stand behind him. Sliding her arms around his waist, she kissed the back of his neck. She was surprised when Martin loosened her hold and stepped away from her.

"I'm sorry, Phil, I've got something to say and I don't know how to say it without hurting you."

"Hurting me?" Phil's brows puckered with puzzlement. 'What has happened to him? He used to welcome my touch.'

Taking her hands in his, Martin pulled her around and pushed her down on one of the stools. Still holding her hands, he bent his head over them and kissed her fingers. "Phil, I'm so sorry but I can't go though with it."

"Go through with what?"

Martin's head came up and Phil stared into his dark eyes. He dropped her hands and turned away from her. "I've met someone, Phil, another doctor. We were...we spent a lot of time together..."

"You've met another woman?" Phil choked out as images of Ben's betrayal flashed across the recesses of her mind.

"Yes, Phil, Anna Walker. She was one of the other doctors..."

Images of a newscast--two rescued doctors holding each other much too close flashed across Phil's mind. A feeling of numbness began in her heart and spread slowly outward. "She was in Cambodia with you?"

"Yes, she was captured with me. We spent our whole captivity together. We discovered we had many things in common..."

Martin's voice receded and Ben's voice supplanted it. The words might be different but the meaning was the same. Just as Ben had done, Martin had fallen in love with a woman who had shared a life-threatening experience with him. Just as Ben had broken their engagement for this other woman, Martin now sought to do the very same thing.

With a hand to her throat, she asked, "What are you saying, Martin?"

"Phil," he began, "I never wanted to hurt you. You must believe me."

"I believe you, Martin, I understand how two people thrown together in a life-and-death situation can become attached to each other." She more than understood what was happening, she'd lived through it before with Ben and Victoria. "But it's just something that happens in those circumstances. In the real world..."

"In the real world, Phil," Martin interrupted, "In the real world, things happen. I do love you, Phil, but..."

"But what?" she fearfully queried.

"But...I'm moving back to Boston."

"And?"

Martin breathed deeply before letting the air flow slowly from his lungs. Bowing his head, he mumbled, "And I'm so sorry, Phil, but I've asked Anna to marry me. The ceremony is in next weekend."

Shock yielded quickly to fury. "You...and Anna? You asked her to marry you?" Phil stared at him a moment, her mouth hanging open. In a tight voice, she continued, "Have you forgotten that you asked me to marry you before you left? What happened, Martin? What happened over there? Did you even think about me while you were with her? Did you even consider the sacrifices I was making for you?"

"Phil..."

"No!" Phil shouted. "Don't you dare 'Phil' me! I made a promise that if you returned to me I would marry you and now, here you are telling me that you're going to marry another woman. You've got a lot of nerve coming here."

Grabbing her shoulders, Martin held her as she struggled to get away from him. Finally, she calmed down and stood rigidly at attention. "Phil, I came here to tell you personally so that you wouldn't learn second-hand. Phil, I do love you but Anna...I...I can't really explain what it is. I just know that I feel complete with her--something I never felt with you. I love you, Phil, but we just weren't meant for each other."

Phil glared at him with burning, reproachful eyes. What difference did it make if she agreed with what he was saying? She had made a vow, had accepted the sacrifice she would make in return for his safe return. How dare he belittle what she'd planned to do for him? Knocking his hands away from her shoulders, she stumbled back two steps, her dark eyes never leaving his face. "How could you?" she whispered through clenched teeth.

"Phil..."

Phil violently shook her head. "No!" She made a slashing motion with her hands. "There's nothing more to say." Straightening herself to her full height, she stared icily at him. "I think it's best you leave now."

Martin nodded his head once but turned back to her at the door. "I do love you, Phil. I know you're only reacting out of hurt. When you calm down, I'll still be your friend." Opening the door, he left leaving Phil standing impotently in her living room.

Phil slammed the door closed and leaned against it. Martin was gone. After several weeks of worry over him as he was held captive by the Khmer Rouge and another week of wondering what was going on in Boston, she finally had her answers. The vow that had given her strength, that she had so carefully nursed during his captivity and after had come to naught. She laughed not even caring that her laughter was tinged with hysteria. Martin was gone just like every other man in her life. She was free of her vow to marry him; free to pursue Ben if she wanted but was that what she wanted? Bursting into tears, she already knew the answer to her question. She wanted a man she could trust with her love and as much as she might love Ben, he'd already betrayed her once before.

Springing from her slouch against the door she paced the length of her living room finally coming face to face with her wall of photos. Her eyes were drawn naturally to her lone photo of Ben. Forcing her eyes to focus on the photos of Martin, she sought to steady her racing heart. Finally she shifted her eyes to the photo of Lindy. She carefully dried her tears before spinning on her heels and marching into her bedroom. After a quick shower, she tossed on a pair of jeans and a faded print shirt. The piles of photos on the dining table called to her and she carefully placed each labeled group into an envelope before dropping it in a large file box. When the table was cleared for the first time in over three weeks, she rummaged through her cleaning supplies and returned with a clean cloth and some dusting wax. Soon the apartment smelled of linseed oil.

The piano called for attention and it too felt the gentle rub of oil as Phil dusted it then replaced the Navajo rug and other ornaments that normally decorated its expanse. Marching to the wall of photos, each was removed and dusted then rehung.

Wiping a hand across her face, she returned the kitchen where she drank another cup of coffee. Rinsing out her cup and the one used by Martin, she opened the dishwasher with the intention of placing the cups inside. It was filled with clean dishes. Sighing, she placed the dirty cups back in the sink and unloaded the dishwasher. After the two cups were placed in the dishwasher, Phil searched for more dishes to fill it. She hated to run the dishwasher without a full load. Not finding any dirty dishes, she opened her cupboard and pulled out her everyday dishes and loaded them. Not satisfied, she pulled out the rest of her dishes and, filling the sink with hot water, washed them then the cabinets, the shelves, and finally mopped the floor. The refrigerator was cleaned as well as the stove. When she finally glanced at the clock, it was approaching noon and her kitchen had been scoured from top to bottom.

'Damn!' she thought as she dried her hands and hunted for her shoes. Where had the time gone? Calling a farewell to Chance who hadn't moved from the bed, she grabbed the box containing the envelopes of photos and left her apartment heading downstairs to the offices of BakTrak.

A stray thought passed through Phil's mind as she descended the stairs. Chance had never liked Martin and Martin had mumbled 'cat hair' more than once as he brushed at his clothing. It certainly seemed like Chance's instincts were better than hers were.

Jeff Bowers glanced up from the work on his desk as Phil flung the door open and rushed inside.

"Sorry, got distracted and lost track of the time," she muttered as she flew past Jeff's desk and into her office. She kicked the door shut behind her before dropping the box on her worktable. She began removing the envelopes from the box.

Jeff stared after Phil's departed figure. Shaking his head, he rose from his desk and approached her door. Rapping lightly, he pushed it open. "Phil? Are you all right?" he called.

"Jeff?" Phil glanced over her shoulder. "I finally finished this and..." She motioned to the mess on the table.

Jeff raked an eye up and down Phil's figure. Casual was one thing but what Phil currently wore stretched even her definition of the word. Add to that the air of distraction or, maybe better, air of agitation that emanated from her and Jeff's sense of alarm began ringing. "No need to explain, Phil. You've been under a lot of pressure these past weeks. Is there anything I can help you with?" he carefully queried.

"No, I can handle everything," she barked.

Jeff studied her flushed face before asking, "Has something happened?"

"No, nothing's happened, everything's just fine," Phil answered a bit too quickly.

Jeff closed the door behind him and strolled over to one of the chairs. Dropping his solid frame into it, he crossed one ankle over the other and rested his chin in one hand. "Okay, what happened and don't tell me there's nothing. I know better."

Phil stared at the envelope in her hand then placed it onto the table. She sighed deeply then crossed the room to stand before the window behind her desk. Staring out at the cloud-flecked sky and the people hurrying about their business below, she hugged herself before speaking in a soft voice, "I saw Martin."

Jeff dropped his foot to the floor and leaned forward. "Martin's back in town? When did this happen?"

Phil turned to face Jeff, her face carefully devoid of any emotion. "He came by my apartment earlier this morning."

"That sly dog!" That would explain her flushed face.

"It wasn't like that!" Phil quickly interjected. "He came to say goodbye."

Puzzled, Jeff asked, "Goodbye? What do you mean 'goodbye'?"

Phil turned back to stare out the window. 'Why are there no pigeons here?' she wondered not for the first time. "He broke our engagement. He's marrying someone else," she whispered, her hand on her breast.

"He what?" Jeff sprang to his feet but stopped as Phil motioned him to remain where he was.

"It's all right, Jeff. I'd rather learn now that he didn't care for me than after we were married. In fact, you'll never know just how relieved I am."

"I don't understand, Phil."

"I know you don't, Jeff. Let's just say that I have a lot of things happening in my life right now and I don't know what's going to happen or anything. Let's just leave it at that, okay?" Her voice sounded tired.

"Are you sure?"

Phil nodded her head. "I'm sure, Jeff." Surveying the mess she'd created she motioned with her hand. "It's time I started pulling my weight around her once more. I'd like to get these trip albums finished and in the mail."

Tacitly acknowledging the ploy to divert their conversation away from what had to be a painful subject, Jeff replied, "All we're waiting on are the photos, Phil--that and your personal note. When we have those we can finalize the individual layouts and ship it all to the printer."

Guiltily, Phil motioned once more toward the overloaded table. "The photos are ready and I'll get the note written today. I want them on their way to the printers as soon as possible."

"No problem, Phil, let me take the photos and I'll get the packets together. Then when your message is finished, I can add that disk to the master package. Don't worry, Phil, we've done this a million time before." Phil lifted an elegant eyebrow. "Well, maybe not a million but you get the message."

Nodding her head, Phil smiled wanly at her colleague. "Yeah, I get the message. It's just that..."

Jeff interrupted her, "Really, Phil, don't worry. Mark and I can handle everything but I sure wish Trevor was closer to graduating than he is. We could sure use some extra help around here."

"I know, Jeff, that's one of those things that's on my mind..."

"Say no more, Phil. Now, since I know how you work, I'll order in some lunch. Any preference?" he asked.

Phil drew herself up and shook her head. "I'll leave that in your capable hands."

* * *

Ben stood in the center of the small room he'd claimed for his office. The boxes containing his files and materials from his old office filled one whole corner and threatened to spill over into what little space remained unoccupied. Three file cabinets and his small desk sat in the hallway waiting for someone to move them into the small room. The lone pieces of furniture currently residing in his office was his chair--a straight-backed wooden model that looked like it had escaped from the local library--and a small bookcase already overflowing with books.

Cocking his head, Ben listened for the sound that had caught his attention. There it was again. It sounded like it was coming from the direction of the closet. Maybe some workers were doing some renovations in the room on the other side of the wall. Laying an ear against the wall, he listened but heard nothing. Stepping out into the hallway, he again cocked an ear. Silence. Huffing slightly, he walked the short distance to the adjacent room and opened the door. Boxes and filing cabinets as well as Ovitz's desk were haphazardly placed about the room. There were no workmen in the room, no construction of any kind. Shaking his head in bafflement, he headed back to his office. Ray and Stan would be here soon to help with the final bits and pieces of moving. He glanced at the three file cabinets in passing but resisted the urge to move them himself. His back reminded him of his earlier attempt to do so.

Pulling his chair out, he carefully settled into it. There were times when he wished he could curse properly. Strange how those times had increased dramatically since returning from the Grand Canyon trip. Maybe it had to do with the unresolved situation with Phil, maybe it had to do with the growing uncertainty about his back, maybe it was a bit of both. Leaning over, he picked up a file from a box and withdrew a pad of paper. Reading down the list of 'things to do', he drew a line through four of the items and circled a fifth. He would have to check with Turnbull on that one.

Sighing heavily, Ben leaned back in the chair. It seemed like his workload had doubled since Constable Cooper had been transferred back to Ottawa. With no hint of a replacement, he and Turnbull had had to shoulder the extra duties. He hoped the Inspector had good news after returning from her short trip north.

A faint rapping caught his attention and his head darted around to stare at the door of the closet. Cautiously rising to his feet, Ben approached the door. Laying an ear against it, he listened intently. Surely that was the sound of a circular saw and that was the sound of a hammer. Straightening, Ben's brows drew together in a frown. He'd just checked the adjacent room and he knew for a fact that there was no one there. Where then were the sounds of construction coming from?

Slowly he reached for the doorknob and silently turned it. Equally silently he opened the door just a crack and placed an eye to it. He felt foolish enough about sneaking around and peeking into the closet. He certainly didn't want whoever was in there to see him--if there was someone there. After a moment of intent study, he drew his face away from the cracked door. Running a hand through his hair glanced guiltily about the small room. Was he finally losing what little remained of his marbles?

With finality, he closed the door and turned away from it. Surely the sounds he was hearing could be explained away and the precipitous entrance of Turnbull into his office was just the thing to do that.

"Constable Turnbull?" Ben asked.

Turnbull snapped to attention. "Yes, sir."

"Is there any construction...uh, building...sawing, hammering...that sort of thing going on?"

"Construction, sir? I don't believe so. The last of the workmen finished over a week ago and the plumbers are not due until tomorrow. I cannot tell you how happy I will be to have a bathroom on this floor that works. Aside from that, all that is left is the interior work being done on the Inspector's office. Her interior decorator is with her now." Ben was too distracted to wonder at the hint of petulance in Turnbull's voice.

"So there's nothing that would sound like sawing or hammering or building?"

"Oh, no, sir, but I would be happy to check and make sure," Turnbull offered.

"No, no, Constable, that will be quite all right."

"Why, thank you, sir. With your permission now, I'll get back to what I was doing."

Ben motioned for Turnbull to continue with what he had started. Turnbull spun about on his heels and left the office. A moment later, a knock sounded on the door and Ben called, "Come in." Turnbull strode into the office and snapped to attention once more.

"Turnbull?" Ben asked puzzled by the return of the other Mountie.

"The Inspector would like for you to come to her office at once," Turnbull stated matter-of-factly.

"Why didn't you say that when you were here a moment ago?"

"I don't know. I guess I forgot about it."

"Don't worry about it, Turnbull. The Inspector wishes to see me?"

"Yes, indeedy, she does."

"Thank you kindly. I'll just go and see what she needs. Maybe she has news about a replacement for Constable Cooper."

"That would be grand news indeed!"

Ben followed Turnbull out of his office stopping only long enough to stare at the closet once more. He could swear that he still heard someone sawing and hammering but he wasn't about to mention it to another person. Maybe it was the pipes in this old house. He'd heard that sometimes pipes could clank and rattle and make strange noises. Maybe, but somehow he didn't think that that was the cause of the sounds he heard. He knew what pipes sounded like from his apartment.

Knocking sharply on the door of Inspector Thatcher's office, Ben opened it and stepped into the room. Sven, the interior decorator, held several rolls of wallpaper in his hands while Thatcher glanced at several other rolls on the worktable.

"Ahem," Ben cleared his throat.

"Ah, Fraser," Thatcher said as she looked up from the mess on the table. Glancing sideways at Sven, she spoke to him. "I think that will be all for today, Sven. I'll make my decision and get back with you."

Sven nodded his head, placed the rolls of wallpaper on the table, and excused himself from the room.

"You asked for me, sir?" Ben gently reminded her.

"Yes, Constable. I wanted to know how the moving is progressing. I haven't had much time to check into the details. These past few days in Ottawa have been a complete waste. Cooper's position will not be filled, my personal secretary has quit..."

"Ovitz has left?"

"Yes, it seems that he has found a better position in Vancouver. He never liked Chicago or Toronto for that matter."

"I'm sorry to hear about that, sir."

Thatcher waved a hand in the air as if to say it was inconsequential. "That's not the worst of it. Jasmine left with Ovitz. Until further notice, the consulate will have to do without a receptionist."

Ben choked on his words, "Jasmine and Ovitz?"

Thatcher grimaced slightly. "That doesn't bear thinking about, does it, Constable?"

Ben slowly smiled. "No, it doesn't, sir." He didn't know how or why or when, but there had been a definite change in Thatcher's disposition. He wasn't knocking it, mind you, in fact, he thanked his lucky stars. Maybe she'd finally met a man that could handle her forceful personality. Looking closer at his superior, Ben decided that that must be the answer. There was something about a woman in love. They seemed to glow with an inner light. He was familiar with that glow. He'd witnessed it from Cat and from Phil and to know that he was the cause of it had made him feel humble and totally overwhelmed. Yes, Thatcher was definitely in love. The next question that popped into his mind was 'Who?'

Ben snapped out of his reverie when he realized that Thatcher was still speaking to him. "I'm sorry, sir, but I didn't hear the last..."

Thatcher sighed heavily before speaking. "It's not important, Constable. I just wanted to know when you would be leaving this evening."

Ben dragged a thumb across an eyebrow before answering. "Well, sir, Detectives Vecchio and Kowalski are coming by to help me move the rest of my furniture into my office. After that we have been invited over to the Vecchio household to celebrate Francesca's birthday and..."

"I get the picture, Constable. So, you will not be staying late this evening?"

"Ah, no, sir. That is unless you need for me to remain..."

"No, no, that will not be necessary," she spoke with some haste. "Thank you, Constable. You may leave now."

Ben inclined his head before turning to leave. Before he opened the door, he turned back and spoke one last time. "Sir, if I may be so bold as to suggest...that beige paper with the green specks? It matches your eyes." With that said, he quickly left the office wondering at his audacity to suggest something so personal.

It was with some surprise that Ben realized that several hours had passed since his talk with Thatcher and Ray and Stan had not yet arrived to help him. Where had the time gone? He stared guiltily at the closet door knowing full well that a large chunk of time had been spent with an ear plastered to that same door listening to sounds that could not possibly be there. In fact, it was in that position that Ray and Stan found him when they finally bustled into his small office.

"Hey, Frase. Whatcha got in there?" Stan asked as he strode into the room.

Ben jerked upright and spun around. There was no hiding the guilty look on his face. His mouth gaped open in a manner reminiscent of a fish out of water. "Um...uh...nothing. There's nothing in the closet. Nothing whatsoever." Cocking his head to the side, he listened intently. Glancing sideways at his friends, he asked, "Did you hear that?" The sounds of sawing and hammering had escalated and Ben could have sworn that the noise was loud enough to wake the dead.

"Hear what? Did ya hear something?" Stan asked of Ray.

Ray simply shrugged his shoulders. "I didn't hear anything. You hearing things, Benny?"

"No, no, I just thought I would ask...make conversation...hehe." Ben made a feeble attempt at a joke.

Ray and Stan simply stared at the Mountie before staring at each other. Stan's hand crept up to the side of his head and his finger made circular motions beside it. "You're a freak, Frase. Ya know that?"

"So you've told me on numerous occasions."

"So, let's get this moving done so we can get outta here. Frannie's been looking forward to this evening for the past week." Nudging Stan in the ribs, Ray confided, "She's still trying to bag a Mountie."

"Really? Any particular Mountie?" Ray grinned as his eyes slid to Ben. Stan roared with laughter. "Coolness, well, pitter patter, let's get at 'er!"

The two detectives soon made short work of the filing cabinets and the small desk. While they had moved the furniture into the room, Ben had stood beside the closet door certain that something was happening within it but whatever it might be, it would have to wait. There was no way that he would investigate what was certain to be an empty closet while either Ray or Stan was there to question his actions.

With a satisfied brushing of his hands together, Ray smiled at the job he and Stan had just completed. It had been a fearful struggle getting Benny to admit he needed some help and even more getting him to agree to accept that help. What did it matter if Ray had finally tricked the Mountie into accepting the help? If it kept Benny from further injuring his back, Ray would do anything--lie, cheat, or steal--but what he'd really like to see was Phil chasing after him instead of his sister.

"Are we ready?" Stan asked.

"Yeah, just let me find a john then we can go," Ray answered. "Where's the nearest bathroom, Benny?"

"The nearest functioning bathroom is on the second floor."

"Whoa! Ya mean ya have ta climb them stairs to take a leak?" Stan interjected.

"The plumbers are coming tomorrow and after that we should have fully functional facilities."

"Fully functional facilities," Ray repeated as he shrugged his shoulders in resignation. Heading out of the door, he called over his shoulder, "Be right back."

Taking the stairs two at a time, Ray turned down a large hallway and opened the first door he came to. The room was dark with only a shaft of moonlight from the window that fell across the large bed. What he saw on that bed brought him to a standstill. He quickly backpedaled and closed the door quietly behind him. All thoughts of the bathroom fled from his mind.

'Turnbull and the Dragon Lady, who would've thought it?' He shook his head in amazement as he descended the stairs. Wait 'til he told the others!

* * *

Phil entered the small antique store and glanced around the collection of furniture and memorabilia. This was the fifth store she visited today. If she couldn't find something suitable she'd have to rethink her strategy. It was so very hard to find a suitable wedding gift for someone who had everything. No, she wouldn't start feeling sorry for herself again.

Strolling past several booths, she glanced at their contents and, not finding something to her liking, passed on by already searching the contents of the next booth. A display in a glass case caught her attention and she detoured into the small bookcase-lined booth. Within the glass case was an antique set of surgical tools. Phil leaned closer to the case and studied the formidable looking set. A shudder of pure antipathy raced up and down her spine as she imagined the horrors of surgery in the mid-1800's. A surgeon wasn't the only one who could appreciate how much the field had changed in the past century. If anything, Phil was certain that this would be a gift that would not be duplicated. She also knew that both the bride and the groom would appreciate the uniqueness of this gift. It also helped that Martin prided himself on his small collection of antiques.

Leaving the small booth, she went in search of someone to help her. Minutes later she left the antique shop well pleased with her purchase. Glancing at her watch, she mentally berated herself for wasting so much time searching for the perfect gift. Hefting the package, she half-smiled to herself and told her conscience to 'fuck off'. She was her own boss and if she spent a little extra time searching for a gift, who was to tell her she couldn't?

A sudden gust of wind rocketed into Phil and she glanced at the sky. It was heavy laden with the promise of rain. Scattered showers were forecast for today then a lull before the big one hit on Friday. Smiling grimly to herself, she thought wickedly of the fact that this same system would undoubtedly hit Boston on Saturday. It was simply a coincidence that Martin was getting married on Saturday and that had absolutely nothing to do with her intense satisfaction in the projected weather.

Breathing deeply, she inhaled the moist scent, filtering out the smells of the city and focusing in on the smell of the rain itself. She closed her eyes for a moment, a wave of longing for the mountains moving within her. How she hated the city. Opening her eyes, she glanced around at the buildings, the people on the sidewalk, the cars passing by. As much as she loved her apartment, she had the feeling that it was time to move on. Maybe she should look for a small house in one of the suburbs. Maybe she should just move back to Colorado or Montana. She was free to go wherever she wanted. The trouble, however, was that she didn't know what she wanted.

Glancing at the sky one last time, she unlocked the door of her car, climbed in, and headed home. Once back in her apartment, she quickly wrapped the surgical set in a subdued wrap of golds and browns. Opening the card she'd purchased earlier in the day, she signed it and placed it in the envelope. Placing the package and the card in a box, she filled the empty spaces with packing peanuts and closed it.

Phil stared at the box for a moment then, turning her back on it, strolled over to her patio doors. The grey overcast sky finally opened and the first spatters of rain struck the glass of the door. The spatters became a brisk shower that beat at the pots of flowers that graced her patio. It seemed like the sky was trying to wash the city clean. Phil snorted softly to herself. She knew it was a futile gesture. Leaning her forehead against the glass of the door, she gave into the feelings of sadness and self-pity she had held at bay.

Angrily she brushed at the tears that streaked across her cheeks. So what if the man she'd planned to marry had left her for someone else? It wasn't as if she was unfamiliar with the feeling. What did it matter if Martin's desertion didn't hurt the way that Ben's had? So why was she feeling sorry for herself? She should be counting her lucky stars that she'd discovered Martin's infidelity before the marriage rather than after. She should be grateful to him for calling off something that was so obviously wrong. Then why did she still feel sorry for herself?

Shaking her head to loosen these thoughts from her mind, she turned her back on the gloomy blanket of rain and paced across the room to the package she'd just finished filling. Staring at it for a moment, she hastened to her office. Settling into the chair at her desk, she scribbled a short note.

Folding the letter in half she placed it inside the box containing her gift. She then sealed the package and set it on the dining room table. Tomorrow, it would go out with the other mail from BakTrak.

Running a finger over the tape, Phil realized that she had sealed a part of her life with that box. One part was ending and another was beginning. What would that new part contain? Would she finally find someone to love her the way she wanted to be loved? Would she finally find her soul mate? And where did Ben Fraser fit into this picture?

* * *

TJ pulled his landrover up beside the old pick-up that sat off to the side of the old frame house. Climbing from the warmth of the vehicle, he tugged his jacket closer about himself and followed the path around to the rear of the house. The directions had been specific. The man he sought was to be found in the small log structure at the rear of the decrepit yard. Patting his arms and rubbing his hands together, he fought the chill in the air. Finally, he knocked on the studio door and waited respectfully for permission to enter. The door creaked open and a face lined with the passage of time stared out at him.

A minute passed while the old man gave TJ the once over. Finally, in a voice that echoed of ancient wisdom, he spoke, "Well, don't stand out there and freeze your ass off." He motioned for TJ to enter.

Grateful, TJ stooped and entered the cabin. He followed the old man towards the back of the cabin and a series of workbenches situated there.

"Sit, sit," the old man said as he reached for a pipe and drew on it. "Now what can I do for you?" he asked as TJ sat on one of the stools drawn up to a workbench.

TJ slid a hand within his coat and removed the small cedar box. Opening it, he presented it to the old man. "I understand that this is your work," he spoke in a respectful tone.

The old man studied the face of the white man before opening the cedar box. It was quite easy to recognize his handiwork. "Yes, this is mine," he answered as he passed it back.

A slow smile spread across TJ's face. Finally, after several false leads, he had located the artisan who had designed the silver bear ring. Extending his hand, he spoke with enthusiasm, "My name is Tom McKenzie and I represent the Field Museum of Natural History in Chicago, Illinois."

The old man shifted on his stool while he raked the newcomer with his piercing eyes. Cradling the bowl of his pipe, he drew heavily on it before replying, "Don't much care for museums."

TJ's hand wavered but was not withdrawn. "I understand your feelings and the reasons behind them and I agree with them. Your people have every right to be suspicious of any one connected with a museum. I want to assure you that I am not here to take anything of yours in the name of 'cultural heritage' or any other crap you may have heard. In fact, with your help I may be able to return some of that heritage to you." He extended his hand once more.

The old man studied TJ's face. It was a strong face, one that had seen much in its life. The memory of a past hurt shadowed the mouth, the love of a caring family glowed from his skin, and the honesty of his convictions shone from his eyes. Earl Muldon finally stretched forth his hand and shook that of the stranger. As their hands touched, a sensation flowed down his arm and filled him with conviction. Much as he had come to trust the female Mountie, he knew he could trust this man.

Rising from the stool he occupied, Earl motioned for TJ to follow him and take one of the chairs pulled up in front of a small fireplace. "Come and share my fire," he invited.

As TJ settled onto the chair, Earl filled two cups with Chamomile tea and offered it to him. Taking his own tea, he dropped into the other chair and stared into the fire.

TJ accepted the tea and sipped at the stimulating brew. He wasn't much of a tea drinker but had learned to drink it to satisfy his sister. Phil constantly barraged him with new varieties of tea and it was mainly in self-defense that he'd developed a taste for it. He could even tell fresh tea from packaged varieties and the tea he now drank had been harvested in the not too distant past.

"I see that you appreciate a good cup of tea," Earl spoke over the rim of his cup.

"I have my sister to thank for that," TJ answered with amusement in his voice.

"A wise woman, no doubt."

"No doubt," he echoed.

Minutes passed as they sipped their tea. TJ waited for Earl to continue their conversation. He respectfully kept his eyes downcast.

"You say you can return our heritage. How?"

TJ placed his now empty cup on the small table that sat beside his chair. Clasping his hands before him, he leaned over them as he spoke. "I'm one of the curators of aboriginal artifacts at the museum. One of the policies that I've helped develop over the years I've been there is repatriation of these artifacts to their rightful owners."

"As it should be."

TJ nodded his head. "Yes. In exchange for repatriation of these artifacts, the various tribes allow the museum to display them there. It's a win-win situation for the museum as well as the tribes."

"But the museum still keeps the items in question."

"Only as long as they are on display. The museum will store the artifacts if that is what the tribe wants or return the artifacts to the tribe to be handled as they see fit. I personally have been present at the ritual interment of some human remains that had belonged to the museum for well over a century. Several tribes came forward claiming the remains and it took several years to determine who had the legitimate claim. After that it took only a matter of months to release the remains to the tribal elders. I was invited to witness the burial ceremony."

And how did that make you feel?" Earl asked as he puffed on his pipe.

"Vindicated...I felt vindicated. There has always been opposition to what I've tried to do--especially with human remains. There's always someone who wants to study them one more time but enough is enough." TJ rose from his chair and stalked over to the fireplace. Leaning against it, he spoke forcefully, "It's past time for those men and women to have their mortal remains put to rest. I felt vindicated when I watched that Sioux ceremony."

"And what do you have to offer me?"

TJ returned to his chair. Leaning forward, he spoke with eagerness. "I have heard that you are a Gitskan hereditary chief..." he paused gauging his words. Earl simply nodded his head. TJ continued, "The museum is in possession of a small collection of Native silver jewelry. I discovered it over a year ago as I was searching through our collections for artifacts to be included in a Tshimshian display. I knew that the collection wasn't Tshimshian in origin and have been searching for a lead since then. Your ring is reminiscent of some of that jewelry." Delving within the confines of his jacket, he withdrew another small box. Handing it to Muldon, TJ held his breath and waited.

Earl opened the box and gazed down on a ring that could have been produced by his own hand. The whale motif and accompanying symbols were ones that he'd used himself. The sense of age that enveloped the ring told him that this was not of his workmanship but of some earlier artisan. His eyes slowly raised to meet TJ's.

"That has been a part of the museum collection for over 50 years. It was part of a purchase from a collector that specialized in early Alaskan artifacts. We weren't able to identify its exact origin until recently. What I see in your eyes tells me that we now know the origins of this ring and perhaps the rest of the collection."

"There's more?"

TJ bit his lip and nodded his head. Now came the tricky part--the negotiations. "There are 52 items in the collection, mostly rings of various types, some beads, combs, neckbands, amulets, all small items. What I would like..." he began but was cut short by a knock on the door of the studio.

Earl motioned for TJ to wait as he rose to answer the knock. Opening the door, he smiled widely and invited the new guest to enter. "Welcome, Rebecca, come in and share my fire."

"Thank you kindly, Earl." Motioning toward the side of the frame house, she spoke as she entered the room, "I thought I would stop by and check up on you. I see you've had another visitor. I hope whoever it is isn't stupid enough to do any climbing in this weather."

"No, he didn't. In fact, he's sharing my fire right now."

Becka glanced past Earl toward the small fireplace and the man slowly rising to his feet. Her eyes grew wide with recognition but it was TJ that spoke first.

The voice that had haunted his dreams for months carried across the small confines of the cabin and TJ turned to stare at the source. Mouth agape, he rose to his feet and spoke in a voice barely above a whisper, "Becka?"

* * *

Frannie stared at her reflection in the mirror before carefully applying her newest color of lipstick. Mountie Red she'd called it preferring that to its real name. It was the exact match to Benton's tunic. Her hand stilled as she stared at her reflection once more. Why was she still trying to attract his attention? She knew it was a futile exercise but still she tried. Becka had told her of this woman in his past and Ray had confirmed her existence. She vividly recalled that moment over a month ago when she'd cornered Ray and demanded to know what he'd done to Ben while they were gone on that trip to the Grand Canyon.

It had come as quite a shock to hear Ray tell her about the leader of that trip--to learn that she was the 'great love of Benton's life'. But what hurt the most was to learn about how the love between her Mountie and this woman had flared anew and now Benton patiently waited for an answer from her. She could only speculate on what the question had been and when she did the answers she came up with made her sick to her stomach.

The few times that she'd accidentally bumped into him, she searched his face looking for something, anything to give her hope. The same gentle smile, the same wariness as he waited for her to pounce, the same relief as he escaped her clutches once more...

A tear threaded past her eyelashes smearing her mascara. Sniffling, she brushed at the tear then sighed as she left a black streak across her cheek. Stiffening her resolve, she stared at her reflection. She would just have to put away her childish dreams of a knight in a red tunic and look somewhere else. She briefly thought about Turnbull but he had not responded to her overtures and she quit after realizing that she really wasn't interested in the other Mountie.

Dabbing at the black streak, Frannie concentrated on repairing her make-up. Even though she'd finally discarded her dreams of a 'happily ever after' with Benton, it wouldn't do to look like she'd given up on life itself. There were other fish in the sea. She'd make Benton sorry that he hadn't looked her way. No, she'd make Fraser sorry.

She heard the men before she saw them. She easily recognized her brother's voice as well as Fraser's but the third voice was new to her--must be Ray's new partner. Ray had said something about bringing him along to the party. After all the disparaging comments Ray had let fall in her company, she did not look forward to meeting such an intolerable person. Tugging on the hem of her short skirt, she descended the stairs to join her family in the celebration of her birthday.

Laughter from the dining room drew her in that direction. As she entered the room her eyes automatically settled on Fraser's red clad form. The slight smile on his face faded and the look of a squirrel caught in the headlights of a car replaced it. She smiled tremulously before dragging her eyes away from him and glancing about the room. Tony was already filling his plate as Maria scolded him for not waiting for the blessing. The nieces and nephews squirmed and punched each other as they usually did. Ray gestured to her to take her place of honor at the head of the table and as she skirted the feuding children, she finally noticed the quite blonde man that had taken the seat beside Fraser. 'Is this the new partner?' she wondered.

Ma Vecchio entered the room carrying a large tureen of soup and Frannie hurried to her chair. The blonde man sprang to his feet beating Fraser to hold her chair for her. She thanked him and was flattered by the blush that stole across his face. He was even better looking up close than he had been at a distance--like some Greek god out of a Botticelli painting she'd seen in her Art Appreciation book--or better yet, the hero on the cover of one of her romance novels.

Extending her hand, she spoke in a soft voice, "I'm Frannie and you are?"

"Stan...uh, call me Stan..."

* * *

"Thanks for the invitation, Rob, but I really don't need anyone to hold my hand just because Martin is getting married tomorrow. Besides, I really do have a lot of work to catch up on. I let so much slide while..." her voice trailed off.

"Flip, you cannot go on like this!"

"Like what? Like someone who has a business to take care of? Like someone who has a goal to accomplish? Like...."

"Like someone who's just had their heart broken. Phil..."

"Don't, Rob, I don't want to discuss him. He made his choice and I can live with that."

"Can you?"

"Yes. I barely think of him anymore. I'm glad he called it off. Just think what it would have been like if he discovered he didn't love me after we were married. No thank you, I can do without that." Before Rob could reply, Phil spoke again in a calm voice, "Really, Rob, I'm okay. I 'm just getting over the shock of it. That's all."

"If there's anything I can do..."

"I'll call you...I promise. Give my love to Beth and the kids." Phil dropped the handset onto the cradle then threw an arm across her face. Sometimes she felt smothered by her brothers' love. Sometimes she wished for fewer people checking up on her. Sometimes she wished she were the only person left in the world--sometimes but not often. Those thoughts were usually quickly followed by the voice of her conscience reminding her of how her brothers had always been there for her when she needed them.

Suddenly she felt the need for some fresh air and solitude. Maybe the rain would hold off long enough for her to take a quick walk along the lakeshore. Lately, she'd found that driving north out of the city until she was past the urban sprawl, past the houses that backed up on the lake, past the last vestiges of suburbia until she reached that unnamed road that led down to the lake and the dunes along the shore had helped steady her thoughts. When she felt like screaming at the top of her lungs at the next person that spoke to her or looked cross-eyed at her or offered a sympathetic shoulder to cry on, she headed to her car and drove north to this small haven she'd discovered. Sitting alone in the dunes as the breeze blew from the lake, listening to the mournful sound of the foghorn on the lighthouse that was just out of sight, watching the twinkling lights of the ships as they silently moved across the waters of the lake, staring at the sky as it darkened into night...sometimes she was able to put a Band-Aid on her raw emotions and slip her 'everything is fine' face back into place. Sometimes but not always.

Grabbing a jacket, she hurried out of her office. Jeff glanced in her direction and she felt impelled to explain her precipitous departure. "Something's come up and I need to..."

"Take your time, Phil, I'll close up if you're not back in time," Jeff waved her explanation off.

"Thanks, Jeff." She smiled gratefully and hastened out the door.

Pulling her car into the tiny parking area, she grabbed the jacket and thrust her arms into it before striding out across the dunes toward the steadily lapping waters of Lake Michigan. Her feet carried her unerringly to the old pile of driftwood and she settled down beside the log that had sheltered her in the past. Drawing her knees up, she rested her chin on them and stared across the lake at the darkening clouds and the hint of fog that rolled across the surface of the water. No doubt about it, when the storm finally broke it would pack a sizable wallop. The wind picked up carrying the scent of moisture along with a chill that brought goosebumps to Phil's arms and legs. A shiver of cold raced up and down her spine but still she remained and watched the approaching storm. Lightning flashed in the distance followed by the sullen boom of thunder. Huddled against the barrier of the driftwood log, Phil waited.

She didn't have long to wait. With the wail of a banshee the storm broke upon her small stretch of beach. It whipped the lake into a cauldron of frenzied froth-covered waves. When the rain came, it came in torrents decreasing visibility to feet...to inches. Phil lifted her face to the storm and let the rain beat on it. At least out here within the fury of the storm no one would know that the shudders that shook her body, the water that ran across her face, and the small sounds of discontent that escaped from her were not related to the storm raging about but to the storm raging within. Out here she could pour out her sorrow and fears and give full vent to her feelings. Out here it was safe to do so, there were no watching eyes, no listening ears, no helping hands. Out here she was free to release her pent up emotions. Out here she was free to think things through without someone offering advice. Out here she could be alone.

Minutes passed as Phil released all the hurt and betrayal she'd carefully hoarded in the back of her heart. She gulped hard, hot tears mixing with cold rain. Her misery was so acute it was a physical pain. It felt as if someone had taken her heart and ripped it apart. She cowered against the log, wrapping her arms around her torso and rocking back and forth. When had she become so dependent on a man that his absence could reduce her to such despair?

Slowly the inner storm subsided and Phil leaned exhausted against the log. The rain continued to pelt her, each drop sending a sensation of cold through her body. Realizing that she'd remained out in the storm for longer than she'd thought, she struggled to her feet and picked her way carefully back to her car. She glanced at her watch--4:37. With the weather the way it was and rush hour traffic and the Friday night dating scene, it would take more than two hours to get home. The thought of a long, hot soak and an early night brought a faint smile to her lips. She'd feel better in the morning.

Her car was where she'd left it and she hastened toward it, pressing the remote. The comforting interior light called to her and she quickly opened the door. Sliding behind the wheel, she turned on the ignition, and steered the car out onto the tiny road but something didn't feel right. Stopping the car, she climbed from its dryness back out into the storm. A brilliant flash of lightning lit the area and with some dismay Phil spotted the flat tire.

"Hell fire and damnation!" she spat. Taking stock of her situation, she decided that it would be best to leave the car where it was and change the flat on the surface of the road rather than on the shifting sands that bordered the road. Turning the ignition off, she flicked on the emergency hazard lights and closed the car door. Opening the trunk, she dug out the jack and the spare tire.

Thankful as always that her brothers had seen fit to teach her how to take care of minor automotive problems, Phil set to changing the tire. The storm freshened around her until she found it difficult to see the car much less the jack and the spare in front of her. Rainwater plastered her hair to her head before running down across her face to drip from her nose and chin. Her fingers were numb from the cold and she cupped them in front of her mouth and blew on them to warm them. It didn't help matters that her teeth were chattering with the shivers that continually ran across her body. Sighing with disgust, she berated herself for letting her desire to bawl out her problems in the storm lead to this. She knew she would pay for it dearly.

Replacing the jack and the flat tire in the trunk, she slammed it shut. Sneezing violently, she once more climbed into the car and started the engine. The glow of the clock read 5:22 as she rubbed a hand across her face pushing wet strands of hair back. Why did it surprise her that it took longer than normal to change that flat? Sneezing once more, she cranked the heater up hoping that the heat would help moderate the cold she was catching. As she pulled her car out onto the highway the shivers slowly ceased and by the time she reached the outskirts of Chicago the heater had been turned down.

She didn't know why or how or when she realized that she'd finally reached a decision in the matter of Ben Fraser. It was as obvious as the nose on her face and she was surprised that she hadn't seen the answer before. Well, maybe she had...and maybe she'd been fooling herself. The truth was she no longer trusted men. Oh, they could be trusted in terms of money or work or the like but in affairs of the heart, a man knew only one thing: how to screw you over. There were exceptions (mainly her brothers) but even they occasionally manifested an overabundance of testosterone.

Every man she'd gotten close to had screwed her but good. Ben had discarded her love for that of a thief and a murderess barely a year after asking Phil to marry him. She should have suspected something when he didn't send for her--giving her those excuses about postings and primitive surroundings. Instead he mooned over Victoria for 10 years without a thought for the woman he'd proposed to at the end of that Colorado summer. She hadn't been good enough to hold his love and he'd gone elsewhere.

Ben had the distinction of being the first but he certainly hadn't been the last. Jason had eventually married Angel. She quickly shoved aside the thought that she was the one that had ended that relationship. It didn't matter. If Jason had been more forthcoming, more willing to help her forget Ben, but no...he only wanted to help her get her life back together.

Then there had been Travis. If he had really wanted to marry her wouldn't he have been more insistent? Wouldn't he have jumped at the chance to renew their relationship during that trip through the Canyon? Instead, he'd fallen in love with her friend, Carol. It should have been her standing with Travis in that ceremony on the rim of the Canyon. It should have been her but it wasn't. She hadn't been good enough for Travis.

Lloyd had seemed like the perfect man to erase the betrayals of his gender. He understood her, seemed to know her very soul. She loved him deeply and he had claimed to love her as well but when the stakes were down he, too, had spurned her love. It didn't matter that they weren't soul mates. Soul mates? What a load of crap. Phil no longer believed that shit (if she'd ever believed it at all). It was just Lloyd's way of saying she wasn't good enough for him. He was waiting for that magical soul mate to appear. Well, she hoped he and Cat were happy together.

And now Martin...after what she had offered to sacrifice for his safety and well being...all he could give her in return was the news that he would marry someone else. Again, she wasn't good enough to share a man's life. She hoped he and Anna would be happy together. She was relieved that she hadn't made the mistake of marrying him but it still hurt to know that she wasn't good enough for him or his Bostonian family.

Which brought her full circle to Ben. He had initiated this vicious cycle and it looked like he would be the one to end it. Ben wanted an answer to his ultimatum. He wanted her to love him again. He wanted her to take him back and forgive him of what he had done to her in the past. Did he think she was a complete idiot? Was she? How could she possibly trust him after what he had done to her?

It was time she started letting her head rule her life. Her heart only got her into trouble. Her heart wanted Benton Fraser like a dying man wanted a cure. Her heart longed to feel his arms about her, holding her close, and keeping her safe. Her heart wanted what no man was willing to give her and she'd had enough of it controlling her life. From now on her head would rule her life. No man, not even Ben Fraser, would ever touch her heart. Her heart was a lifeless, stone-cold weight in her chest--just another useless organ in her body. Too bad she couldn't donate it to some unsuspecting fool.

Her head said to play it safe. Don't place herself in a position where she could be hurt again. Her head said that she could handle her life without the complications of a man in it. Her head said that she needed no one and the sooner she realized that the sooner she could get on with her life.

There really was only one answer she could give Ben. She would send him the letters as she'd planned. He did have a right to know about his daughter but anything more than that was out of the question. There could never be anything between them. She couldn't take the chance that he'd abandon her once more. Both her head and her heart knew that she could not survive that happening again. It was better not to take the chance than to risk everything. She didn't need him. She'd done quite well without him. It was better for both of them to make a clean break of it--part as, if not friends then, acquaintances.

What was this queer sensation that swept across her? Why did her heart choose this time to remind her of how much she wanted to believe him, trust him? Why couldn't it accept the fact that there was something wrong with her that made men reject her? Why did it insist on replaying those memories? Why did she have these thoughts of him and what they might have had if only she could believe what he said? Why did she have these regrets for something that she could never have? Why couldn't her head overrule her traitorous heart?

* * *

Copyright October 2000 by Cassandra Hope

1. Glad and Sorry by Carol Trendall

2. Regrets and Thoughts of You